The 40th
by VesperL2
Summary: Forty days he had Sherlock in his power, forty nights he made him doubt, forty days and nights took Sherlock to realize there was no way out. Chapter 3/11.
1. The Waiting

**The 40th**

Prologue: The Waiting.

Darkness.

That's all he could see when he stirred and at last opened his eyes. Deep and utter darkness. The kind of pitch black feeling you get when you can only manage to acknowledge your sight being used because your leaden eyelids don't hang shut before your eyes.

His cunning gaze tried to scan the room before him, but there was no data to collect, except the fact that he could not make out anything in that lightless world. He tried to shuffle and like a flick of a switch his mind wrapped up the fact that he was tied up in a chair. He could now feel the rope binding his feet and cold handcuffs on his wrists.

He blinked a few times waiting for his eyes to adjust, but the sight never came. He wondered if he had suddenly become blind, and with that he panicked -strategically worried, he doesn't panic- now was definitely not the time for his sight to falter. Maybe John could…John.

His train of thought was interrupted and with that his priorities changed. Since one of his other senses was compromised he called out quietly to John, it was never clever to make loud noises in these sort of situations -and they seemed to get caught up in them quite often- but when his doctor didn't answer he threw caution to the wind and yelled, "John! John!" Over and over again until his throat was dry enough to make him stop, but there was no sound to get back from the room.

He started questioning if John was even there with him, but it was uncommon for criminals to get only him. So there were two options -out of the six he conjured up at the beginning- left, either this was extremely personal, or they had John in some other room ready to use him as a hostage, and damn, he hoped it was the former rather than the latter.

Once that realization hit him, he stayed quiet. There was no one to call for, and there it was again, utter silence. He had nothing to go on or try and deduce where he was, or whether they had John or not. He was a man of answers, he could observe, muster up data and expose all of your darkest secrets within minutes. However this time he had no clue, and it frustrated him. Not a single thing to use, except that it was dark, it was silent, and he was alone.

* * *

It was only when he woke up that he realized he had dozed off. His mind barely grasping the fact that he was indeed still tied up in that chair and what happened was not just some vivid dream. He tried to remember when was the moment in which they -whoever they were- got him. When the answer didn't come naturally he reverted to his Mind Palace. He walked around, searching every hallway until he found the room where he kept all this sort of things. When he entered, it came to him.

_He was walking through an alley. It was approximately 6 o´clock in the afternoon. Heavy rained poured down from the sky, so it had been raining for quite a bit. He reached for the inside of his coat sleeves and proved he had walked a short distance when he found them dry. He couldn't remember where had he been before or why was he walking on that part of town, he most likely deleted it, deeming it unimportant at the time, he definitely could see its importance now. _

_He turned around and saw that no John followed him, which was good. That meant he probably hadn't been there when he was ambushed. Hence he was not taken, therefore this ordeal was most likely to be personal and he was on his own. Good._

Having John on the outside world aided him in more ways than one. First, he would quickly realize he hadn't come home that night, and would probably set up Lestrade and his men looking for him right away. Then, for once John couldn't be used as blackmail, that allowed the young man more freedom to do things. And finally, John was safe. That gave him a sense of relief, like he had one less thing to worry about. But that didn't mean that, in his own selfish way, a tiny bit of him wouldn't have wanted it for him to be there too. At least to stop being so bloody alone.

_He felt a cold breeze hit his neck and came to know his scarf was missing, and noticed for the first time his hands were covered in blood. That was interesting, he didn't recall being in a fight or getting hurt. This thought was cut sort when he halted and seemed to wait. When two men jumped on him and he did not appeared to be surprised. That was even more interesting, was he expecting them? There was no time to waste so he started punching and ducking -unfortunately taking blows too-. But despite the fact of being outnumbered, he was proving to be a good match to the other two contestants. until the assault turned unfair and one of the men cheated. He put a cloth on the detective's mouth and in a split second he deduced what was happening, and knew he had lost. A second later, everything went black._

It was obviously not what he had expected to do that night -not that he actually knew if it was still the same one- and his legs started to feel numb. So that proved he probably had been tied up there for several hours. He needed to remember who he was chasing. Was he even in a case? If he was, why wasn't John with him? and why did he had blood on his hands? These questions rounded his head, and he tried to go back to his Mind Palace, but it seemed impossible. Something had closed the door, and he did not have that key anymore.

He stayed still, for what seemed like days, but could've been mere minutes. By the amount of slight air he felt in his bare forearms he knew the room he was in was not that small, but a room nonetheless. Darkness filled every bit of it and it made him nervous, something could have been skulking around unseen and he wouldn't have had a clue about it.

He knew there had to be at least one way out, and he was determined to find it. He listed all the torture devices that could be stored in a place of that dimension. So far he could picture at least twenty one, and those were only the ones he was familiar with. You never know what kind of clever and twisted new toys could his captor had acquired for their meeting, this being obviously personal. There were sometimes fresh ones, always much sicker than the last and he could not picture the sort of tool they will most likely use on him, nor how much pain it would cause him, probably a lot. But in that room everything was possible. He needed to see, even if what he saw was worse than what he imagined. He needed to be sure.

He curled his toes at discomfort and moved his bare feet as much as he could. He felt his light shirt weight on his torso -that and his trousers being the only clothing he had on- and it somehow wasn't enough to keep the cool temperature away from his system, he missed his warm coat.

Suddenly a light bulb flicked on in the centre of the room, sending a wave of faint light all across it. His pupils slowly starting to reduce to their original size. He thanked that the light was not bright white, but soft yellow, and it didn't have the strength to ignite every detail between those walls, but it was enough.

His newly recovered gaze scanned his surroundings at the speed of light and he was surprised to find out there were no threats, at least not ones he could see. The space was medium size, and there was no sort of furniture, just the chair to where he was bound. The paint on the walls was scratching off, he calculated it had been for at least ten years, and it had low ceilings. This was probably used as an storage basement in its glory days, most likely a wine cellar. He could still smell the slight scent of fermenting grape. He searched for the most important thing, a door.

It wasn't easy to find it, but after looking as closely as he could with the movement restraint, he noticed an slim -almost unnoticeable- gape in the wall before him, forming a rectangle. It seemed to be heavy, and probably as thick as the concrete walls. It was modified so it could only be opened from the outside and that left him to grasp the fact that he was going to have to wait until he had a visit from whoever got him in this situation. Or for John to come to his rescue. Whatever the reason, all he could do now was wait.

After several minutes, he started realizing a weight on his shoulders, as if the life of him was beginning to drip away from his body, he recognized that feeling that tugged him downwards. He knew he had been drugged and it had, at last, started to work its magic through his body. He was almost sure he could see something come out from his fingers, like ghosts escaping, dancing and twisting, ready to get away from that body of his. He didn't believe it of course, he knew first hand all of the effects a drug could have in someone's system, but he couldn't help but gape at the sight. It was all so interesting.

* * *

Once he stirred again he felt different. He could sense something cold against his cheek and one of his legs felt sort of trapped. When he raised his head the room had been tilted sideways -he was the one who tilted- and he was now sprawled on the floor. The chair was nowhere to be found, and his now free wrists and ankles were showing a tinted red stripe. The rope must have burned the skin, but they didn't hurt. He was now unrestricted to roam around the small place, hopefully he would encounter something worth observing.

When he stood up his legs staggered a bit, not yet regaining their full strength, but alright enough to walk. He strode the confines of the area and found few things of importance. The most intriguing one being the fact that there was now a tray of food laying close to the -for now- unopenable door. The food on it wasn't a feast, but it was enough to grant a body with all the vitamins needed, to not cause -except of course, if you were Mycroft- starvation. If they were feeding him well it meant they needed him alive, to help them do something or to torture him as long as possible. He, once again, hoped for the former.

He kneeled to examine the food, smelling it and looking for any trace of poison in it -not that he was planning on eating it- he just wanted to measure what sort of nemesis he was facing up against. Know your enemy and you shall win. There was no sign of any inedible substance, and the vegetables smelled disinfected. There was, however, something off in the situation. He could feel the night coming to a dawn and usually the captor should've made an appearance by now. There was none of that this time.

He was now untied, well "fed" but still imprisoned. He felt like the lap dog his uncle Henry used to have when he and Mycroft were young. He would keep him in a large cage, and buy for him the best dog food he could find. But he never seemed to pet it, or even let him take a walk or two outside that quadrangular hell. Although Mycroft and him always looked past it, now that he thought back at the situation, he realized he sort of pitied that dog. His brother would probably scold him if he knew, tell him that caring is never an advantage, but that creature reminded him of a lonely, friendless life, like the one he used to have. Before he met John.

His uncle claimed to love it, yet it never meant anything more to him than a moving toy. Maybe that was what his captor thought of him -not the love part, but the concept of making him feel like the lesser being in their presence. This was beginning to feel all too familiar, he had been in that situation before, but the one who was behind it was long gone. He was glad he would never have to come down that road again, the last time he saw that man -if you can even call him that- it costed him all he had, even his life. Still it didn't shake the fact that whoever this person was, he was going to play him, maybe until he had nothing left again.

He felt frustrated, not knowing what this situation was about. So he looked, he looked for more things that could clue him in the plan he had to conjure up. The food tray stood there, untouched, taunting. He grabbed one of the chicken breasts from the plate and threw it across the room. His mind too caught up to do anything else. As he went to grab the second one he noticed something under the plate. A white flat object, creeping out from below. When he pulled at it he knew it being a note. Three words written out across it in a curly, almost mocking, handwriting. If the tray of food wasn't already an statement of the fate he was about to endure in its own, this made it crystal clear.

_"Missed me, Sherlock?"_

* * *

Author's note: So, this is the prologue, the chapters are much longer, and the should be coming up periodically, but I have school and work to think about so bear with me if I take a little longer than expected to update.

Hope you liked it!


	2. The Preparation

Author Note: I'm sorry for the delay, this one is a bit longer.

* * *

Chapter 1: The Preparation.

Those three little words seemed to jump out of the paper and dance before Sherlock's eyes. Yet he did not desire to give in to the fact that they made him anxious. The handwriting and strength of stroke showed they were clearly written by a man, reality which he had already stablished in his head. But _who that man was? _is the question he desperately needed to answer.

It was personal, and the note just displayed that he had already encountered his captor at least once. That was ill news, there were only so many dangerous criminals who had a reason to hate his guts, and try and narrowing it down to just one seemed impossible, or at best improbable, until he had more information. He looked down at his hands, and they were still painted in now dried blood. Why couldn't he remember its source? or the reason as to why it covered a part of his body? There were no signs that declared it to be his own. And he loathed not being able to just waltz in that specific chamber of his mind and pull out the file which contained the answers as he usually did.

Whatever they did to him to make him forget, and have the memory quality of an ape must have been extensively planned, for he could assume his brain had put on one hell of a fight. Sherlock could deduce they were trying to make him an idiot, so they could _treat _him as one. Intellect -at least in his own account- is his one and only quality, rid him of that and he is nothing. That sort of dedication and mastermind power to ruin him ruled out at least nine names of the suspect list, and no matter if his partially slowed down head wouldn't allow him to place the events of the day prior, there was one thing he will always remember how to do, and that is solving a difficult case.

He has always refused to be controlled by someone other than himself -not that Mycroft didn't tried- let alone not knowing by who he was being controlled. He rolled up his button down shirt sleeves and searched the almost empty room once more, surely there wouldn't be a thing he would have missed, but he did not have another choice. He turned his head and saw the small speakers hanged at the top of each wall. There was also a camera at the corner of the room, its previously red light now shining bright green, obviously transmitting everything that happened inside there. Great, so now he was also an entertainment.

Whoever was doing this sure went out of his way to make Sherlock become frustrated, any other criminal would flaunt his perfect crime in front of him just to prove him he could not stop them anymore. This one, however, did not seem to be taking revenge, instead it was as if wanting to see Sherlock dance, it was all just a game.

If Sherlock didn't know better, he would have said it was an old enemy of his. But that crazy bloke was now dead and that nightmare was over. But still, for a reason he did not know, he hadn't taken him off of the list. His captor knew Sherlock could not live without answers, and that is the reason he was providing him with less than few.

Just a single note, and he was expected to recognize his captor with only three words. Surely there have been times he could deduce the murderer just by one colour, but this was entirely different. The clues were delivered in a silver platter -quite literally actually- and he suspected he could be being dragged to a certain answer, a diversion. How was he going to work with fake evidence? But Sherlock refused to give up that easily, there was an answer to all of this and he had to find it.

He sat on the floor, the drugs finally taking their toll on his body, the high was gone at last. He needed to think, the fact that he was stuck angered him beyond compare. He did not even have nicotine patches or a violin to help him think, nor a skull to talk to -although John would have been better. He missed his one friend, he had a way of making him get to a brilliant epiphany. And of course appreciation was always welcomed. John had been a real help in all of his recent cases, not to mention he was the only one who seemed to understand -and put up with- Sherlock and still be able to contribute to society. A conductor of light indeed.

A light chuckle escaped from the detective's lips when he recalled the broken nose he had gotten after sneaking in on him at the restaurant. Maybe the whole "Hello, by the way I'm not dead." idea was a mistake, but John always managed to forgive him. And now Sherlock was trapped in this cellar with no clue of what he was up against to. But he knew John would come after him, he always did.

It was slightly hotter now, probably the sun had started to shine on the outside, although that seemed improbable for the city of London, it had just rained the day before. That's the first time he pondered the thought that maybe he was not even in London anymore. This was again all so interesting, and if he hadn't been the one captured this would have probably classify as a nine. The sort of case that was too good to pass. Amusingly enough, now he had to solve it whether he wanted to or not, to save his life.

He flexed his legs towards his body and was now sitting with the tip of his hands supporting his chin. He closed his eyelids and returned again to his Mind Palace, -but not before crossing off another three names from the list. They were just too stupid to know how to push his buttons down- remembering who he was chasing before he got caught was crucial. Once inside it, it felt smaller now, diminishing almost. That was not good, not good at all.

Since he was a little boy, he started building up this room, referencing every bit of it to something he must remember. Later, as he started to grow and became smarter, the walls began expanding until he was left with little more than a gigantic castle, full of information and important data ready to use. As an addition, he stored away memories he did not want forget, like the time he met Mrs. Hudson, or the only time his father told him he was proud of him -he outsmarted Mycroft in chess when he was six- he knew his brother had let him win, but still those things didn't happen very often -try never- and he was not about to let it go down the drain, he had always craved the attention, even though he will never admit it to anyone, himself included.

His head, contrary to popular believe, was not a maze, but a well-organized chamber. He had broken it down in wings, floors and rooms, and unlike his flat, it was always squeaky clean and not a single useless thing could be found in there, he never cared for filling his head with rubbish. Needless to say, there could also be found inside it a large area where he deposited everything related to his cabbie-shooter flatmate, and he used to enter there quite often to think. Not to try and solve a murder, but to calm down and just _think_.

Now seeing the place he created and perfected over the years change, was very unsettling. It had never happened to him. Trying to access one part of his brain but never succeeding. Everything else looked in place, yet he had locked out that information. He took a deep breath and opened his eyes, just as any other blocked memory situation, it will eventually come to him, and right now no matter how hard he pushed there wouldn't be a difference.

He took another look at the note, not even knowing why he was doing it, everything there was to find out about it, already crossed his mind. He scanned it carefully, every bit of it for hours straight, until he saw it. It was a teensy black dot at the end of the letter _E_. Others would call it an ink excess, but to him it was a curse, for it fell upon him like a hundred pounds of red bricks. It showed the inclination of the pen used, and it indicated they were written by a left handed man. A bloody left handed man.

This was the moment his frustration started morphing into something similar to fear. The note hadn't changed at all, the paper was still white, the words were still three and the calligraphy was still flirty, even so it had taken a whole new meaning to him. It proved a reality that he did not yet understand. The note had transformed and with it Sherlock's state of mind. Once a threat, now a death sentence.

* * *

This could not be happening. Not again. His senses had never -except for that one time in Baskerville- failed before. And it made him highly uncomfortable not knowing what to believe in anymore. Although every clue kept reverting him back to the same place, he refused to consider it being authentic. Surely someone must have been playing some sort of sick twisted game, driving him into thinking it was not over. The thing that worried Sherlock the most was that the only one with the intention to do it was the very answer he was running from. This could not be happening.

He thought back to the last moment he saw him. They were having a game of wits at the rooftop of Bart's. Punchlines coming and going everywhere. The sleuth was sure he could get the data he needed from the criminal, and for a split second Sherlock thought he had him. But then Moriarty pulled out his gun. As soon as he realized what his opponent was about to do, he darted backwards, terrified at the action and a gun shot was all he could hear. Everything happened so quickly that when he wrapped his mind around what he had done a pool of blood was already oozing out of his body. His mind was in a haze, as he saw him there, lying cold and lifeless on the floor. Then he remembered the problem he was in and turned around, phone in hand, and focused his gaze on John.

There was no way he could have survived that shot. He had been there when he did it, at hands reach, and he sometimes -not that he cared to admit it- still had nightmares about it.

So how could this be truth? The only reasonable answer was: it wasn't. His mind was playing tricks on him, someone was just trying to scare him off. Sherlock decided that would not be happening anytime soon, at least not until he had actual proof to believe his worst enemy had escaped that deathtrap.

He took a moment to calm down, and got up from his sitting position. Slowly approaching the camera on the high corner of the wall. He examined it for a short amount of time before tugging at one of the cords. Hopefully not being able to see him through that, his captor would come out of their hideout. Once the wire was disconnected, he lowered his arm and waited. There was something similar to static coming from one of the speakers on the far end wall. Clearly they were preparing them to be used. Good.

Sherlock expected to hear something, someone -most likely- threatening him, but the sound never came. Instead he noticed something being slipped from under the door. "Another note." He thought, and quickly crouched down and grabbed it. This time the message was longer, but clearly written by the same person.

_"Who would have guessed? Little Sherly is shy,_

_Do not fret though, I can still see you :)"_

That was it, he did not care who the crazy bloke was, nor what sort of sick prank was he trying to pull, Sherlock was having none of it. With a frown, he crumbled the paper inside his hand. Frustration running its way through his body, rolling down his sleeves again did nothing to ease the fact of the utter discomfort he felt. It was as if he was trying to work out a puzzle but was afraid of whatever outcome it may have- actually, right now any outcome would be better than what his mind was throwing, and damn, he was getting warmer-.

Despite of not wanting to believe in what the clues were feeding him, it maybe was time to consider the situation. His mind already working through all the possible cases of surviving that shot, but he came off empty handed. Death could be faked, this much he knew -more than anyone- but he could not conceive how.

He resorted, instead to the other two names left on the list. Both dangerous, but nothing compared to the criminal at hand. One of them used to work for him though, that was a fact worth elaborating. Yet something did not seem to fit, none of this men could have known the effect, nor the memories the word "shy" had on Sherlock.

Once, when he was fifteen and Mycroft came to visit, he was forced to _socialize_ with his brother's friends from uni. Mummy commanded the soon-to-be british government to at least introduce Sherlock to them. He was beyond annoyed and just wanted to get it over. He told each of their names to Sherlock -which he definitely deleted- and addressed him to them as his _baby brother_.

When the detective turned around with no more than a nod given, Mycroft said something he shouldn't have, and regretted it after the reaction it caused -Sherlock throwing a family relic to the wall and breaking it-. He added something at the end of the sentence whilst he was still in earshot. "I'm sorry, my brother's a little shy". Probably Sherlock should not have been so affected by this. But he was beyond fuming. He was _not_ shy, he was actually bold, and even -as the ordinary people often put it- outrageously big-mouthed. He knew every sort of human interaction, just didn't care for any of them. Needless to say, he loathed the word even since, and now his captor was mocking him with something only his pastry-lover brother would have known. Aside the criminal to whom he gave his life story.

No chance the word was anything near a mere coincidence. So that too ruled out the other two men, the other options Sherlock would have preferred. Only one name left. He considered, for a split second, the probability of him becoming crazy, but shook it out of his mind as soon as it came. After all Sherlock Holmes is -almost- never wrong. Maybe a few teensy details off, but never something as big. Once you eliminate the impossible, whatever remains, no matter how improbable, must be the truth. This time, however, it may be working against him. For the first time in his life he did not want to be right, he wanted to realize he had missed something, something that would turn all of this in another direction. No such luck.

He started pacing around the empty room. His knuckles white from clenching fists, and he could feel a headache already starting to form. He thanked again for the fact that John was not with him, although he did miss him. This was clearly a war he had to fight on his own, and he did not want the blogger to see him do whatever it took to get out of there. Hopefully they would be looking for him and desperate measures would not be needed. At the end of the day Lestrade was a determined man, Mycroft was resourcefully nosy, and John _cared_.

* * *

"Who are you?" He said loudly, into the hushed night air, suspecting the answer, though a little bit of him just wished to be proven wrong, to be corrected. His baritone voice ringing, echoing all over the room, after hours of thinking and analyzing he decided to just ask. Not caring for being too bold.

"Do you believe in ghosts, Mr. Holmes?" A loud voice came out of seemingly nowhere. Sherlock halted his pace the second he heard it. He took a split moment to close his eyes and breathe, before opening them up again and search the room. After checking on the source of the sound -the speakers- he finally had a chance to focus on the voice. He knew that voice, that accent, and specially he remembered to whom it belonged.

"You look surprised, weren't you expecting me? I got to say I am rather offended." He hated that tone, and he hated the fact that he had not seen this coming any sooner. "You... you are dead." He muttered, fret making its presence in his hoarse voice. A knot already forming in his stomach. This could not be happening.

"I guess that makes two of us, doesn't it?" He paused, acknowledging the fact that the detective despised the memories being brought to him and putting him on the spot. "You shot yourself, I saw you do it." Desperation ringed through his words, and he had to regain control quickly. Emotion could be the death of him, quite literally. "Oh, but did you?" Waiting for the sleuth to wrap his mind around the situation. The answer left Sherlock wondering its meaning. He _had_ seen him do it, hadn't he? He had seen him pull out his gun, and shove it inside his mouth. Seen him shot himself, and a dead body bathed in crimson liquid spilled all over the floor. But then Sherlock began to worry, no matter how hard he closed his eyes and tossed all his mind palace around, he could not recall the sight.

It had happened to him before, just after _the fall_. At first he had thought he had repressed it, too traumatic to remember. But as days passed he could see it. He could see Moriarty shooting himself in the head, his humanity -if you can call it that- leave him. However, now the detective got it, he never remembered it, his own mind had constructed the whole ordeal, not handling the fact that even though he knew he was dead, he would never know for sure. He had seen him pull out his gun, and shove it inside his mouth. Seen a dead body and assumed he had shot himself. And now Sherlock could not feel more stupid at making such assumption.

This powerfully rattled his cage, how was he supposed to know what was real and what was not? How was he going to tear the two apart? His mind had betrayed him, and he just needed to think. Put aside all feelings and do what he had trained himself to do. Emotions were the reason his brain felt the need to build up a fantasy world where Moriarty did not exist, but he was never going to let that happen again. He needed both, his mind and body, at the same corner on this one.

"Got it yet?" The consulting criminal spoke once he saw the other man shift the way he was standing, reaching a suitable conclusion. "I'm glad to know you kept your promise of shaking hands with me here." He sing-songed cheerfully. Like a proud master. "Here where?" Sherlock asked, not even remembering the conversation they once had about this. "Hell." The criminal spoke, soft but firmly, and it was all it took for Sherlock to prove his fears, James surely knew how to make his life a living hell -he'd done it before- and he was not going to hold back. It was obviously him, every aspect and side of this spelled out his name. It had always been them, and no one else. Them in a fight to the death.

"Oh, that." He answered back, trying not to let the fact that he was actually shocked show. He relaxed his shoulders a bit, in an effort of letting the man behind the camera know he was not afraid of him, even if that was a complete bitter lie.

"It's funny how _we_ remain on having the same _ideas_, isn't it?" The voice pausing and changing pitch all through the question. The detective took this as an attempt from his captor to diminish the fact that he had actually outsmarted him. That he had predicted his move and taken two steps ahead in the board instead. It was impressive that he got away with that, really, he had to give him that. But the brilliance behind the double cheat did not mean the man liked it one bit.

"Extremely amusing." It was a poor shot to avoid the conversation, but it was not entirely false. Although he loathed to admit it, they had already stablished they were two sides of the same coin, and Jim was certainly the only match for his _massive intellect -_as John often put it-. But the never-ending push and pull between them had died with him at the top of Bart's, and he had no desire on unburying that old bad habit.

"So here we are again _Sherly_, just you and me." He started and everyone knows once the consulting criminal has begun there's no stoping him, but that doesn't mean Sherlock wasn't going to try. He was going to say _get me out of here_, but he knew it was useless. There was no way he would let him juts walk away, and asking for it was plain moronic. "This security system is reeeally good, you should see how well I can watch you right now. You look good." Moriarty rolled out the last words with venom, knowing very well how much the sleuth was uncomfortable with them. Sherlock shifted weight and swallowed hard. "By they way, trying to unwire my toys was not cool." The madman smiled at this, at least he had managed to annoy him a bit, even for just a few seconds.

"Just thought it would make you come out and play." Sherlock said mirroring what Jim had told him the day they met. He wander about the room nonchalantly, trying to appear as collected as he could. Showing weakness would only make things worse for himself.

"I'm sorry our meeting has to be this way for now dear, I would very much love to be there in person." There it was, the characteristic menacingly charming sweet talk Sherlock couldn't say he had miss. It somehow added power to the man, although the detective couldn't quite understand how. "But you know how clients are, they just can't get enough of me." Sherlock just flickered his blue-gray eyes throughout the walls, there was nothing he could do for now other than to amuse the man with clever chat.

"Same as you with me." Sherlock mocked him. "Can we just get this game over with so I can go?" He urged, coming off as bored and uninterested. Tired of the repetition from the consulting criminal.

"Oh, you're no fun! I was hoping you stayed here a few days." He said resembling a whiny child. "Not that you have a say in it." He ended with a serious tone. Obviously the man was not letting Sherlock go any time soon, not before he got what he wanted from the him. "You are not allowed to know the game we're playing yet, my dear Sherlock. But for now I'll send you my friends to show you the rules."

"Are they the same that jumped on me at the alley?" Sherlock began. "I would very much enjoy seeing them again." He said cracking his knuckles, locating exactly where the other camera was. It was much smaller, and seemed sophisticated, clearly more expensive. Obviously Moriarty knew he was going to try and unplug the other one. And now that he thought about it, it probably was never working in the first place.

"Your wish is my command. Well, I better be off..." James took a chance to chuckle a bit at his own inventive entertainment. Sherlock, however didn't find it anywhere near amusing. "Why can't you just tell me what am I doing here? I just solved a case and I don't have the energy to play your games." The detective sighed, he wanted nothing more than to get out of there, but a ridiculing "See you later, Sherlock Holmes_._" is the only thing he got in response.

Silence filled the room once more, and the realization hit him, hard. His deductions _had_ been right, yet he hadn't planned what he was going to do if they were. But now there he was, with his captor´s name circled and flaring bright red on his mental suspect list, and he didn't know what to do. Escape was always an option, but there was a high chance he would get caught again, Moriarty was clearly not working alone, and if his calculations were correct -they always were- there were about twenty seven men standing between him and freedom. You don't have to be a proper genius to figure out the odds didn't favour him.

Apparently -if Sherlock's internal clock was right- it was sometime around a quarter past midnight. Good thing the detective rarely sleeps, he had no intentions of closing his eyes and having any sort of vulnerability in that room. Anything, the slightest slip and he could be damned. This thought brought him back to that day at the top of Bart's again. How he didn't know if he was making it out alive. Three years is a long time, far too long to waste. Yet he was forced to spend them like he did in order to keep everything he -surprisingly- loves alright back at London. Although _alright_ is far from being the world he would have used to describe them when he returned to what he left. It made him wonder what sort of thing he would have to lose to win the battle this time, and to what sort of home was he going to be arriving when he got out._ If_ he ever got out.

But there was no time for worrying and over-analyzing that right now. He knew they were looking for him, and even thought the police -Lestrade included- was most likely out of its depth, he had taught John well. And surely he would be picking the pieces quite fast, at least for someone claimed to be ordinary. Statement which Sherlock could not disagree more with. He surely was going to be _receiving_ visitors soon and maybe there would be something he could do to get out of this mess. The soles of his feet hitting the cold concrete as he walked. His long fingers roamed his messy hair and he let out a small sigh.

* * *

An uncommon rustle came to his ears several moments later. There was unusual activity at the other end of the door, and the sleuth figured it was time for Moriarty's pets to come for him. Smashing and clamping his thoughts away he paced to the entrance. If Jim was true to his word, and these were in fact the same men who brought him here, Sherlock already knew their weak points, and their best forts. He stood next to the door, and waited for a bit. The element of surprise would work at his advantage, and maybe rid him of the sensation of being outnumbered.

Seconds passed before the two men came storming into the room. Heavy steps and hurried bodies halted at the middle of the room, probably scanning it with their tired eyes and wondering with their small brains where the prisoner was. Sherlock came springing from behind them, long limbs stretching and grabbing one of them by the neck. Tightening the bloke's ability to breathe. The other one -taller with brown short hair, scarred right cheek, and grow-in bruises, clearly abused when younger, most likely by his mother and got trapped in this situation at early age. Bribed, probably now too greedy to leave- wrapped his arms around his waist and pulled him off his mate.

The madman was a resourceful man, the sort that makes more with less, and sneaking out of their arms was easy enough. He now remembered one of the perks of being almost thinner than a tooth-pick, it worked when he was nine to escape the other kids' bullying habits trying to rip him apart from his books, or punching him just because he was _too much of a freak, _and it thankfully still worked now.

Sherlock ran to the other side of the room, his long strides giving him a two seconds leverage. The two other men came rushing across -but not before one of them had to wait and catch his breath first- and tried to corner him. The detective was much quicker than them, and took him no effort to dodge and confuse them. If he made for the door now, he probably wouldn't get very far, but he was not about to let these idiots get him without a fight, not if he could hurt them first. Lower his own chances of the same happening to him.

However, one of them -the one with sandy blonde hair and a very much annoyed expression- grabbed his arm as he ran and twisted him around. The tight grip already giving the younger man a teensy shard of aching. "I got you." He'd said and Sherlock watched as the other man came tumbling his heavy body to him. He used his free hand to take a swing in his aggressor's nose direction, and missed just by a few centimeters, the punch landing on his cheek instead of the middle of his face. It was effective, but not enough. Still, it was painfully sufficient to make him withdraw his grasp and call him _little shit_.

The brunette got his revenge for his partly injured mate and thrusted his fist until it came colliding with Sherlock's stomach, quite badly. The detective backed away a bit, and received another blow, this time on his jaw. He ducked to the ground and crawled out of battle field, at least that would take them by surprise. When he was far enough to stand, he did as he could to not fall flat on his face. The blonde gazed at him for a second and then tackled him to the floor, the sleuth already trying to squirm his way out of his grasp. He was pinned down by one of them and tied by the other. This time it took no drugs to beat him, no cheating -if you consider being outnumbered, fair-. Great, another failure to add to the long lists of mistakes he had done lately.

Things in his life weren't going as he wanted them to some days before he was taken. Criminals seemed more vicious, and even if he loved the thrills, he couldn't deny the fact of being constantly dragged around threatened made him exhausted. The worst were the _vision_s, as he liked to call them. A month before, he had started seeing strange things on the streets, men who seemed to be following him, strange looks from faces at the shop, one time he even thought he saw someone who was supposed to be dead. Supposed to not be around anymore.

At first he didn't say anything, waving it all off, he was probably just too observant. But as the stares became more intense, and the _visions_ seemed to happen more frequently he had no option but to tell someone -John- about them. Big mistake. John had listened intently and had already worried himself out of his mind before Sherlock could even finish to tell him what he thought was happening. When the detective tried to calm him down, it only made him more preoccupied and by the end of the next day he had -after having an intense row with him and somehow winning- forbid Sherlock to walk out of Baker Street.

Sherlock then decided -more like absentmindedly ranted about it in front of him, and realized it when it was too late- to tell Mycroft all about it, in hopes he would help him convince the blogger to calm down a bit. Even bigger mistake. His brother took the doctor's side with a much worse reason, he got worried but not because he believed Sherlock, but because he thought his brother was paranoid, hallucinating even, and expressed his _concern_ to the Yard.

Lestrade decided then that the detective was probably too unstable to do the job, probably had been working too hard, and demanded Sherlock to stay away and _rest_, at least until his mind was well enough to take cases again. So, to resume, it was already a week in which he was not allowed to work or to set a foot out of the flat, fact that ended in royal boredom; his nosy brother was constantly nagging him about his health and updated their surveillance status for the second time in one month -he was now a grade six- and his flatmate was a nervous wreck. Not to mention half the Yard had now, thanks to Mycroft, what they liked to call _real proof_ that Sherlock was crazy. What a joy!

Moriarty had raised from the grave to haunt him again. Sherlock understood now that those weren't visions, he wasn't really going insane. Those were actual living things, waiting on the lines to attack him. Somehow this thought did nothing to calm him. He had no time for this now, he had more important things to worry about, like the two men handcuffing his both hands to a water pipe.

After they were done and Sherlock was surely not going to move from the spot he was, the other two men smiled to each other. They had him just the way they wanted him, and there was nothing he could do about it. "So, Derek, what do you think we should do to him first?" The man said to his brunette companion, turning around and rolling up his sleeves. They were probably going to beat him up, they had no torturing objects and the sleuth suspected they would get some sort of sick satisfaction doing it with their own hands. "Maybe we should start by showing him who's in charge." The other replied. Typical, Sherlock thought, stating authority was very commonly used by captors all over the world, and honestly it disappointed him a bit, he had expected a little more brains coming from Moriarty´s minions, not that it meant he was not most likely going to end up with his guts tied around him by these blokes.

The first thing he felt was a fist colliding with his already wounded jaw, blood dripping from his lip. Philip -the sandy blonde six-footed beast- took two more swings at him and he just tried to bear the ache. His legs were still free, and a kick to the other man's lower regions was effective enough to make him back away, only to be replaced by his mate. A very furious Derek took leaden-feet steps towards him and returned the favour. Sherlock almost doubled in pain, but decided against it. These bastards won't see him break, not now, nor ever.

He was pushed further to the ground until his back almost touched the floor and his arms were stretched up above his head. Then the brunette booted his side over and over again. The detective felt something crack inside him, sending a wave of pain unto the brim of his humanity. _Two broken ribs_ he thought, and he spat out some of the blood from his mouth. He was already in desperate need of medical care. His eyes, however, still had that menacing glare, as if saying _My body is just transport, you can't break me_. This, obviously was not appealing to his butchers, they desired to see him want to crawl out of his skin just to ease the torture he was going through, and when no matter how much they hit him -by now he had three broken ribs, and a finger, a dislocated shoulder, bruises in his face and abdomen, and blood trickling down from several cuts all over his body- he was nowhere near as miserable as they wanted him to be, they got quite angry.

Philip stood above him, eyeing him down as a cat who's finally caught the mouse, and laughed a full-throated chuckle, deep and resonant, that made Sherlock try desperately to rid the handcuffs off his wrists, to get away from these bloody madness. This gave the attacker a motive, an opportunity and he pressed his foot into Sherlock's chest, the broken ribs crushing at his insides as his breath was completely lost.

For an split second the detective thought his heart was going to be squashed and he would be left there, lifeless and with a shattered chest. What an awful way to die, in the hands of these brutes, compressed to nothing by their brainless beating. Sherlock did not want to go like this, ´tis not that he had given his own death much thought when he was younger, but as of the second his feet left the edge of the Saint Bart's rooftop and his body was sent flying down rapidly to his possible end, the concept of ceasing to be stung him, and he realized if something was to go wrong with his plan and he was actually to die then, it would have been for the best of reasons. At least, even if his trick failed, he still was able to save the people he cared about. He knew he, whatever the outcome, had made the right decision and that alone was enough for Sherlock to close his eyes and just trust it.

"You thought you could beat us, you little shit. We may be done with you for now, but our master sure isn't." They had said when they decided the sleuth had had enough. Apparently, with the conversation he happened to overhear as he was being beaten ruthlessly, he managed to gather some data. Moriarty had told him to _shake him up a bit_, and that after he was done with his demanding projects he would be there in person to explain the game to Sherlock. A game he was most likely going to be forced to play by the criminal's rules. The devil always plays fair, just a bit fairer for himself.

In the time Derek and Philip were in the room with him, Sherlock had seen enough to deduce their whole dull lives, from their young years of school and braces to their training. They had been instructed for about two and a half years exactly for this task. Probably since the second Moriarty came to know he was, in fact, not dead, he had been planning this. A way to destroy him once and for all. This was serious business and despite the case of his body being badly injured, his mind was intact and running, and damn, he was going to use it.

* * *

A whole day seemed to pass, and Sherlock's insides hurt. Crushed bones are never good. He recognized the wounds and injures were made perfectly thought through. They all were painful, really painful, but -except for the broken ribs and finger- none of them were deep enough to cause any real damage. Agony without evidence. Brilliant.

It was all too careful, Moriarty was no doubt a clever man, perfectly delicate on how to handle a situation like this. The detective's body was betraying him yet again, he hadn't eaten anything in three days, nor slept in almost four, so it's an understatement to say his body needed maintenance. Sherlock had no desire on doing either of them, poison, ambush, torture, murder, these and more: were all a probability if he were to show any weakness in this place. He was not about to trust these people even in the slightness, not to not put something in his drink, or take him away when resting, but his stomach was _too_ empty, and his head _too_ drowsy.

He had to stay focused, he had to stay awake. Ignore the hunger and the tiredness. Those aspects that once made his body be on a state of hyperawareness, of super activity and energy, now where starting to weigh him down, he had put them off for too long and they had begun taking their toll on his mental abilities. Maybe a quick nap would get his brain running again.

He sat with his back to the wall, and positioned his arms as limply as he could being handcuffed to the pipe. He took, not three, not four, but five soothing breaths and closed his eyes. His body relaxed nearly instantly and he decided he was going to doze off for a few minutes. Not fully deep sleep, but mere drowsing. He didn't want to be unaware of what was around him, of what was happening to him, just rest his drained self and try to gain back control.

When he was about to loose consciousness the door opened swiftly, and like a storm there came steps. Sassy dress shoes clicking on the floor, approaching Sherlock by the second. The detective sighed and kept his eyes closed for a moment longer, already knowing what those steps meant.

"Wake up Sleeping Beauty, daddy's here!" He heard a high pitched voice taunt him, and lifted his eyelids. There he was. The vision of the supposedly dead man all dressed in Westwood and wearing a huge smile, staring back at him with those big brown eyes that seemed to suck Sherlock in and drag him to the bottom of an abyss inside his pitch dark soul. He looked just the same as he remembered him, an unfortunate turn of events. The sleuth wanted to believe that seeing him wouldn't affect him this much, that maybe his mind had extrapolated this man's vicious nature and that the actual criminal would appear as a watered-down version of the monster that often haunted his memories. He was wrong.

After him there came Derek, who placed a chair in front of Sherlock for the criminal to sit and headed off again. As soon as the door shut locking them both inside, and they were alone again, Jim started talking. This time much calmer, but no less secure. "So, do you like the place?" He asked, and the madman just glared at him. "I think it's rather fantastic, although it is in desperate need of some decoration. But who's got the time for that?"

"You did not come here to talk about which colour should the walls be painted, James." Sherlock said more of an statement. Completely aware of what his adversary was attempting on doing, he didn't have the strength nor the mind to engage in clever chit-chat.

"_James_? I think I like it when you call me that, it sounds machiavellian." He answered grinning. Flirting was surely something he knew how to do, how to make people feel he had them under his thumb. "Anyway, I'm here to talk about you." With this, the detective shifted his body a bit and sat up straighter, reaching a far more comfortable eye-level between the two.

"What about me?" Even though he hadn't ingested anything in days, they were forcing water down his throat every four or five hours since the day before, so his vocal chords were not dry. His intention, however, was to stay alive and he was not going to achieve it by yelling at the beast. So he just responded nonchalantly.

"What are we going to do with you, Sherly? Since the day I found out you were just playing dead, I sent one of my snipers to..." And the criminal trailed off, Sherlock was no longer listening or even looking at him. His eyes were fixed on something in sight above Jim's left shoulder. "What?" He had asked and turned around to see what in the world could possibly be more important than what was happening right then. When his body angled and his vision landed on the item of the detective's attention, the solution surprised him. He saw a plate of food.

"Oh, you're hungry." He remarked smirking, and the madman cursed under his breath, he should not have let this man witness a vulnerability on his part; but he was famished and there was nothing he could do about it now. "You haven't eaten a thing since we brought you here, have you?" The brown eyed kept staring at the hatred in the other man's ocean-like eyes. Hatred towards him, and hatred for the fact that he was actually spot on. The answer to his question already painting a picture on his face.

"Here," The criminal got up on his feet and strode to the meal plate, he picked it up and brought it close to the sleuth. "Eat, my dear. Do not let me stop you. I don't want you to starve and die on me." He placed the dish in Sherlock's hands and smiled saucily at him, as if trying to be charming.

The curly-haired man peered at the food. This was not good, Moriarty is only kind when he is about to crush you, the calm before the storm; and this could mean but one thing: he was damned. He decided then his appetite was officially gone, he casted the dish aside and returned his gaze to his nemesis. "Please do keep going."

"You've got questions. Of course you don't need me to tell you the reason why you're here." Jim stated, sitting back on his place. "I'm here so you can burn me." Sherlock replied honestly, there was no point in beating around the bush, there was only one way this conversation will end, and that was with him trapped there and the criminal walking out the door triumphantly.

"That's very true, I'm glad we didn't have to go through that conversation again. You see, I also like experiments very much. So we're going to do one together," He got up and paced around the room, casting glances now and again to Sherlock -who still laid seated on the floor, scowl on his face- and talking eagerly about his plans, like a boy with a new toy. "So you, as the subject, will perform some tasks, and we will monitor your efficiency. You are to do everything me or my little friends tell you to." These words were flying out of him like a waterfall, easily and strong, and there was no way of making them stop.

"What if I don't?" Sherlock asked playing strongly, he still had pride and he was not ready to succumb to whatever mean the bloke had in mind, no way was he going to become their test subject.

"Oh, you will. Trust me Sherly, you will." The criminal replied and his eyes turned a shade darker, Sherlock was sure he could see something breaking loose inside of the other man's glare, he had released the monsters. "I have my ways, but let's just hope we won't have to resort to them." The look was gone as soon as it came and the detective let out a mental breath.

"So what are the results you're hoping to obtain from this said experiment in which we are supposedly going to collaborate?" This question could only bring a foul answer, but the game was already being played and if Sherlock didn't move one of his pieces he would approach more promptly to his final destination. "I wish to know how many a time it would take for the world's only consulting detective to finally snap. How long for the madman to actually become... mad." He walked closer to Sherlock, his back arching a bit to face the sleuth. "I want to know what will it take to break you."

"Sorry the results are going to be disappointing. You'll find that you cannot, in fact, break me." Sherlock's chest bounced up and down more hastily, but he remained poised. The criminal knelt down and reduced the distance between them a bit, faces merely inches from one another and two set of eyes locked on what could be the destruction of either of them. Finally Jim said breathing the same air as the curl-headed man. "Then show me what you're made of."

* * *

Author note: I really hope you liked it, and review if you have the time. Points up for people who spots clues!


	3. The Test

Chapter 2: The Test.

He was running. Running as he had never run in his entire life. Springing and dashing around through the streets. His legs were striding hastily on the pavement. He tried to coordinate his breathing with his movement pace, but it was too ragged. He had to get there in time, before something bad happened. Before it was too late.

His chest was beginning to burn with exhaustion and he could swear he felt a tug of despair inside it too. He shoved the thought down and kept running for dear life. He could hear the sky stirring, a storm was drawing near, and somehow a shadow could be felt growing in the distant horizon. He had to beat the odds, if he arrived but a minute after he should his whole world would crumble and shatter apart. If you had told him, he would never have believed someday he would be this stupid.

He took a left turn and then a right one, his feet were starting to sense that crushing feeling one gets after having walked all day and his leg was not alright yet. But he could not stop now, it would only mean giving up on the one real thing he hath ever had. He had to keep going, no matter how much it hurt; because if he didn't, it would hurt all the more.

Just as he was about to reach his destination, he heard a heart-wrenching scream. An acute cry that sent all his body in shivers, and as he rounded that last corner, what he saw almost made him stumble over, he was late.

* * *

Sherlock awoke abruptly. Sweat dripping on his forehead, and his lungs were trying hard to keep up. His stout brain quickly reckoned his situation, and he looked around to determine if there was any threat in there with him. When he was sure there wasn't, he relaxed and sank back into the floor. It most have been a nightmare.

Two hours. He had slept for two hours, and even thought they weren't nearly enough, they helped. He felt renewed, like he could think again. Now, if there was only something inside his stomach.

After his conversation with the consulting criminal, he kept nodding until tiredness finally got the best of him. It was an unintended rest, but as soon as it hit him, it was more than welcomed. He had to think of a way to get out of there, as he was sure he would not hold out another complete day without sleeping again, and the idea of being attacked that way wasn't a pleasant one.

He roamed across the room, for his hands were untied now. Moriarty had said he couldn't see the point in the handcuffs if he was already sure the detective was not going to attack him. He was right, Sherlock -even though he had every desire to place his hands around the criminal's neck and squeeze until his whole body went limp- wasn't going to try and harm Moriarty. Not because he didn't deserved it -because he bloody well did- but because it would only mean bad news for him too. He knew they were looking for him, and he was going to do whatever it took to be alive when they arrived. Killing Jim would only result in his own destruction.

He bent down and lifted the plate of food from the floor. After a few minutes of analyzing it and searching for any traces of a substance that may harm him, he took a bite of whatever was in the dish. He honestly couldn't care less exactly what it was he was eating, he just needed something to keep going. As soon as he deemed it _enough_, he stopped and tossed the dish aside.

Sherlock has never been sure in whether or not he believes in higher power, but there have been some occasions where he could as well imagine someone was somehow watching over him. Certain moments where he couldn't believe he was that lucky. When he solved his first case, when he met John, when he didn't die at the fall, all of these and more the detective had listed and painted across a mirror in a chamber inside his mind palace. Where he could look at them continuously and remind himself that whoever God was, he thought he deserved all the things he had laid out in front of him; things that would appear mere chance but were actually the reasons he was still alive, all that he lived for. It was not logical for him to accept it, for there was not physical proof whatsoever; but something inside the sleuth always wondered if things happened without a purpose, without someone or something planning them.

However, he had proof about the devil. Moriarty has stood in front of him a million times before, and he is one of the devil's servants. A demon -if not the devil himself- and wherever there's darkness, there must have been light to compare. Silence the absence of noise, and evil the lack of goodness. So if the devil exists, someone who is his rightful adversary should too. Sure, the detective was decidedly not an angel, and will never be, but he liked their side better; and the fact that this snake was winning over him, over _them_, made him feel outraged. This man shouldn't have the possibility to control lives like this, to break souls like he enjoys to do; he should be nothing, and nothing he would be, Sherlock realized, had he not let him had that sort of power. He should have stopped him at Bart's, he should have stopped him after Carl Powers.

The detective loathed the idea to think himself and Moriarty were not so different. That's why he was so afraid of him, not because of his twisted mind or his love for crimes -Sherlock had those too- but it was the fact that they were so alike that made his stomach curl, to think that somewhere deep inside him there's the potential of him to become exactly what the criminal is, he just had but to cross that line and all would be doomed. He is a smart man, and not the local nor the international police could do anything about it. He'd be worst than the consulting criminal, and his crimes would be so neatly and brilliantly sealed that no one would ever have the ability to get to him, except perhaps himself.

So he sat down, at the middle of the room, four walls pinning down on him, crossing his legs and joining his hands under his chin as a child would when praying and he began to think; because that's how Sherlock prays, and he has never known how to do so in any other way.

Whatever experiment the criminal must be planning it could not be good, or lacking in painful aspects for the sleuth. Waiting for the inevitable was unbearable, so his Mind Place was probably the place where his brain could find some peace at last. He opened the main doors and took a left turn, passing a few halls and chambers. A few locked doors being left behind, which contain so many secrets the detective would never be able to confess to anyone, not even as much as think about them, just guarding them there, inside his mind where they could not scape nor disappear.

When he found the room he was looking, he entered and closed the doors behind him. He had missed the smell of dusty books and wood. It was amazing, really, how he could create an alternate universe and live within it when he needed it. When reality was too much to bear, he could always resort to his own mind and calm down. Intensely shutting the outside world had always done the trick and this time was no exception.

_He set to relax his body a little and took one of the books from the bookshelf. Placed himself on a comfortable sofa and opened it. He traced the pages with his fingers, there were no words in it; weird as it may be, none of the books in his Mind Palace had any form of writing, just pictures, and Sherlock liked that for a change. Images of things he enjoys doing were making their way through his thoughts. All those experiments with fascinating results, all those cases solved. Everything in his life had a purpose and a sense, and the sole event of something changing its harmony was not acceptable in the slight-less. _

After what could have been possibly hours Sherlock opened his eyes once again. Just in time to hear steps outside the door. And in came the consulting criminal, and Philip, along with a red-haired little boy who had been tied up and muted by a cloth tightly wrapped around his mouth. The sight made him sober up from his almost peaceful thinking, this was no way near good.

The little child was placed just in front of the detective, and he looked terrified. Jim stood behind him, he had yet to speak a word, but the smirk in his face grew bigger as he noticed the concern run through the sleuth. Sherlock watched as the boy cried scared to death and felt a brief tug inside himself. This boy shouldn't be here, there was nothing this child could have done to even deserve to be in this psychopath and his minion's presence, they probably got him with scarce effort.

How did this criminal had managed to have an empire this big was beyond him. He had invested two of his precious years chasing about each and every member of Moriarty's organization until he was able to dismantle everything up until his right hand. Now he was back and as the clever man he was, he built an entire new corporation within months. That was the problem, Sherlock thought, he got rid of the web but failed at killing the spider, needless to say, a new web it weaved and weaved until no thought of it ever been destroyed remained.

The detective fought the urge to deduce anything from this little defenseless creature before him. Knowing the outcome this encounter was likely to provide he couldn't be as cruel with him or as foolish with himself to find out more about him, it would soon prove useless and counterproductive. So the madman decided to focus all his scrutiny to the criminal's figure. Triumphant already with his shoulders back and hands over his hips.

He was staring back at him, a silent conversation going on between the pair and muffled sobs in the background were all they could hear. The exchange consisted in Jim smiling _"I've won"_, and Sherlock glaring _"How can you do this?"_. Then, their discussion was interrupted when Moriarty called Philip. "Hand me the gun." He said to him and the other man quickly complied. Sherlock reluctantly averted his gaze from him and took a turn to watch the boy, between six or seven years old, full of youth and potential, all of that now probably gone from the future.

"You are not doing this." He warned the criminal, he was not going to let him get away with this. Sherlock was bound to endure this hell, this child wasn' the detective had brought his own fate on himself but he certainly wouldn't allow the man to hurt such a small individual so brutally just out of power. Moriarty was not playing fair. Three other men Sherlock didn't recognize entered the room while he spoke and went to stand behind him, he was already feeling crowded.

"You're right, I'm not." Jim was tracing his palm and fingers through the soft surface of the gun slowly, examining it. When suddenly he came to a stop and turned his head towards him. "You are." He said handing him the revolver. The expression in the sleuth quickly paled as he refused to take the gun from his hands. "If you don't do it, the four men behind you will aim at you head and are not going to miss, dear. I advise you to take the logical decision."

Sherlock scoffed at this. _"As if,"_ He thought. "Let them shoot me; as much as I value my own life very highly there's nothing you can say to make me change my mind." There were no words in the english language -or any other language for that matter- to ever convince him of such atrocity.

"That's it? You're just going to let me shoot you to save a child?" He tucked his hands inside his trousers pockets, with an exasperated look. "You really are boring." His tone lowered two octaves.

"And you really must be insane if you thought I would even consider it." Sherlock spoke up bravely, he was not going to play this sort of games, even if that meant losing them. Moriarty handed the gun back and crouched before the boy. After inspecting him for a little while, he stood up again and turned to the detective. "I guess it was too soon." He had said and gave him a disappointed grimace. "I'll have to plan something different." And made for the door, but not before giving Sherlock a small smile that would have almost looked innocent if he hadn't seen the face it belonged to.

This made the detective wonder for a moment what had just happened. Usually this wasn't the way things went, usually evil didn't just go away. He never expected Jim to just pout and take it; he was expecting some torture, maybe blackmail, but nothing. Sherlock just passed the test, or he failed it depending on the point of view, even though he felt like he hadn't done anything, and that's exactly what he did: nothing.

Just as the criminal was about to get out of sight he called out "Oh I almost forgot, Philip dear, shoot him anyway." And wide-eyed Sherlock turned and spoke as quickly as he could "Don't!" It was not enough though.

It all happened too fast, he tried to shove the child away as the other was aiming the gun, but it all happened too fast and a loud bang was heard. The body of the little boy fell limply unto the ground and before the sleuth could do anything he was being almost carried to the water pipe, where he was handcuffed again.

A pool of red was already forming, racing through the extension of the floor at light speed -or at least that's how Sherlock saw it- and his stomach made a turn; the detective regretted having eaten anything, he was close to returning whatever it was he ingested. A few more men came in and removed the little body; others cleaned the blood away and the detective just watched them numbly. Realization catching on to him. He truly was powerless, and was not a player in the chess, but a pawn; and as soon as Moriarty got enough he would dispose of him, that was for sure.

* * *

After what Sherlock decided to call "the boy incident", he was left more or less alone for two days. They would seldom come, dropping a food tray to the floor next to him and forcefully making him drink whatever it was they brought when they entered -for it certainly didn't taste like water to him- sometimes going as far as physically opening his jaw with strong hands and forcing it down his throat when he was being _extra-feisty_. Still, Sherlock knew better than to believe they were going to leave him be for good.

On day number six since he was taken, sounds started coming from outside the commonly quiet door. They were coming again, most likely to run another one of their tests on him. Until then, Sherlock had never loathed experiments before, guess now being in the petri dish for a change made him exponentially develop a disgust towards the idea. He liked observing, not being the object of observation; it made him feel helpless.

A hoard of men came through the door, following the consulting criminal, like some sort of twisted parade just to show off their power. After the main event and the crew of servants, entered eleven more individuals; a company of all sorts. Men, women, children of different ages, and Sherlock's insides began to rumble with the anticipation of what was more likely to come. This was going to be a bad night.

The one-person-short dozen of them were lined up against the far end wall, with bags over their heads. He heard some muted crying and sobs, and something that in other circumstances he would classify as laughter; though now it creeped him out a bit. "I've got good news, Sherly." Moriarty paced about and approached him. He was clutching in his hand an item Sherlock could not identify, yet he seemed to hold it with such a delight that the detective could only deduce it was used for inflicting pain.

"You are not going to need these anymore," He had said as he wrapped his hands around the handcuffs and turned a key to open them. Sherlock slid his hands out and rubbed one of his wrists with his palm, they were sore. James strode back and began to speak again. "I got myself a new toy, I was going to tell you what it does, but I thought it would be much more amusing to watch you deduce its purpose." He said as he brought the plastic item closer to the detective's face, as if putting it on display.

Sherlock glared at it and then at Jim for quite a moment before sighing and gazing over the piece. He was not going anywhere, he might as well humor the bastard. It took him less than a minute to realize something, and when he did he could only say he was no surprised. "You are not going to shock me in order to make me comply with everything you say."

"Oh, always so serious." He smirked and forwarded his left hand to press the device against Sherlock's arm. It stung a bit and sent bolts of lighting running and twisting through his insides. It hurt and Sherlock let out a small groan of pain and quickly flinched his limb away from the consulting criminal. When his eyes ghosted downwards he still could feel pain, but there was no physical sign of it. "It doesn't leave a mark on your skin, nor does it provokes permanent damage to the nervous system." He explained while twirling the plastic gadget around his fingers.

Sherlock regained composure physically, but was startled on the inside. The shock not quite yet wearing down. "It was quite expensive," the consulting criminal began, "but I am too much fond of you to cheapen this experience." He said softly, almost trying to be soothing; and it sent shivers down the detective's spine. He sat up and gazed around a bit, piercing eyes throughout the line of people. "It is really unique, reminds me of you."

"Whatever you have in mind, I won't go through with it. No matter how many times you decide to shock me." The madman spoke, confident and sure. There was a particular girl in line who gasped quietly at everything the criminal said, and Sherlock saw her clutch a toy between her fingers every time. His statement, however, seemed to calm her and the corners of his mouth tugged up a bit. He always thought children to being annoying, but he sometimes preferred them over boring adults; they were unpredictable, curious and more often than not, they hadn't developed any vicious nature yet -except for James who committed his first murder at age eleven- unlike perverse grown-ups.

"See, this is a game we're going to play," he paused and glanced at the girl. "And you are going to play Sherlock." He said toying with the shocker nearly as cheery as a christmas day. "It goes like this: Each and every one of this individuals will die," His fingered signaled the eleven hostages against the wall as he spoke sing-songed words like velvet out of his mouth. Sherlock could almost see them depart from him and disappear into thin air, leaving behind only their meaning and cruel significance; the sleuth wanted to capture them and shove them back into Moriarty's evil self, he wanted him to taste what they felt like to himself, for to him they sounded only of despair.

"Unless you solve each riddle and pass each challenge; you'll be given one test per individual, if you fail I'll let my pets have some fun." This was the real test, this was where he was expected to prove himself, this was where he was most likely set up to fail.

* * *

The first riddle was easy, to such a great extent that the detective kept wondering if it was a trick. Fortunately it wasn't, and a middle aged woman was carried outside and -supposedly- released. The chalice filled with what quite looked like blood was emptied to the drain and false praise was given for such an intelligent man.

Sherlock didn't like it one bit; he craved recognition, that was true, and appreciated it when John would do it, but coming from behind the teeth of the consulting criminal the words "amazing" or "brilliant" just felt _wrong_, tainted. Patronizing somehow, and humiliating even.

The next four were a bit more difficult, he solved the two riddles and completed all the challenges nonetheless, which were not as bad as one may think. Sure, they were no picnic, but the detective handled them well enough and four more where let go. The torture devices intended for them were casted aside; Still, Sherlock could not figure out how they were planning on tormenting someone with a box of frogs or gnats; and even thought the curiosity was ripping at the seams of his mind, he did not want to find out, and was glad he didn't have to.

By the time of the sixth one a day had already passed, he had been put to sleep -almost forcibly but necessarily- and had been shocked at least three times an hour to make him obey when he was misbehaving, and suddenly Sherlock felt like a dog for the second time in a week.

* * *

"Now, you know what's inside this, Sherly?" Moriarty said holding up a syringe. Judging by the colour and consistency of the substance in it, the detective could tell some details, but not enough to form a suitable deduction, so he just waited for the other man to elaborate instead. "This right here, is a bacteria, Staphylococcus aureus. I'm sure that rings a bell, doesn't it?"

It did ring a bell. "Boils." Sherlock muttered and Jim gleamed. Oh, what the grown-child would give to have the pleasure of ripping that taunting smirk off the criminal's face. His tests were becoming more vicious and honestly, rather tedious, but the detective couldn't deny that he had been interested more than one time. Not that he would ever admit it out loud, but this had always been how he entertained himself, solving brilliant crimes.

Still, the word "boils" was not something to play with. Sherlock knew about this disease, and of its imminent side effects: Painful death. He turned his head around and realized the girl was next. "What's the riddle this time?" He asked hastily, the puzzles were ranking up higher each time and Sherlock's impatience had nothing to do with the fact that they were _oh! so fascinating_.

"I have a feeling you'll enjoy this one. Two men," Moriarty commenced. "Long time friends, are reunited at a high class restaurant." This was all it took for the detective to become aware of this one's importance and the self-proclaimed sociopath already hated where it was headed. "They both order their meals and one of them orders seagull soup as a celebration of his friend saving his life." The criminal continued. "Once it arrives, he takes a spoonful to his lips and tastes the soup. He stands up and excuses himself from the table." Seagull soup? So, this wasn't about John and himself after all. Sherlock felt close to relieved.

"The man heads to the stairs and climbs them all the way to the top of the restaurant building. He gets to the rooftop, walks to the edge and -oh! you'll love this- steps off committing suicide." Those phrases were pressing on his chest like a hammer; no matter if he'd survived and his life was back to normal, to that day Sherlock still couldn't hear the words _"rooftop"_ or _"suicide"_ without mentally wincing. "Before you go there, he was not threatened, or manipulated. He had no illness and wasn't drugged or poisoned." He said with a grim smile, how he loved to watch the detective squirm against his undeniable victory.

"His wife had died at a tragic accident three months prior, the three of them were shipwrecked, and she was the only one who didn't make it, the poor. Ending a loving and perfect marriage of years." The detective was still dumbfounded when it came to Moriarty portraying human emotions, his skill ranked quite far above his own. "So riddle me this Sherlock..." By then, Jim was sitting in a chair a feet away from Sherlock and kept casting glances at his hostages before turning to the detective once again. "Why did one taste of the seagull soup caused this man to end his life?"

This was where Sherlock's mind began to roam. Floating through the never-ending possibilities, stars passing by and theories exploding like supernovas. Thousand miles an hour, collecting all the data and picking apart the details. The answer of the riddle was hidden somewhere deep inside. It could have been sentiment, the man, somehow, remembered his wife thanks to the soup and was overwhelmed by the memory. Sherlock disposed of this idea rather quickly, if it was his wife's death what got him upset he would have killed himself before then, somewhere between the second and fifth stage of grief -he was clearly over with the seven stages, otherwise he wouldn't have agreed to go to a restaurant, let alone order something to "_celebrate_". No, this was something new, something he didn't know but only realized at that moment. Still, the revelation, however surprising, had to be unbearable enough to lead this man to think he had no other option but to throw himself off the building.

Sherlock was familiar with that feeling. Sure, his reasons were probably nowhere near resembling the seagull soup man, but they were there, there was always a _reason_. The detective had never in his life felt a despair that strong before. A feeling of hopelessness that dictated only one way out of this. It's true a thing such as "not having a choice" is nothing but an illusion. There is always a choice to make; the problem is whether you're willing to live with the consequences. Death, is, and will always be, in and of itself, an alternative; although not one most people will take.

For example; right now, the detective didn't _have_ to solve the riddle. He could stop trying if he wanted to, and the child would be dead in less than two days by a vicious sickness. However, after seeing the little girl, and hearing that persistent, sometimes annoying voice -which for whatever reason sounded too much like John's- inside of him telling him to do the right thing, he decided he would not let that happen. Hence he _would_ solve the riddle.

Standing at the rooftop of Bart's, he was offered a choice. And even though the action was difficult, making the decision wasn't. He had to choose between dying -faking his death- and let the criminal shoot his friends -not exactly a brain teaser. Losing the few people in his life who actually cared about him and he cared about was not an option.

He felt a bolt of lighting riding through his veins, startling him out of his train of thought. Jerking his shoulder away he glared at the criminal. "Don't stall." He said, and his voice sounded more deep and thick that he had ever heard before. "Then let me think." He spat back and the criminal raised his hands in a defensive manner, _"Oh, how innocent."_ Sherlock thought as he tried to revert his mind to the issue at hand. His thoughts returned with a vengeance.

He thought about the little girl, and how his time was probably growing thin now; it would be minutes, if not seconds before Moriarty would call up victory and the tiny human would be damned. Sherlock needed to think rapidly, get the answer, figure out the motive, _solve_ the riddle. But his brain couldn't help but to wander, some of the facts hit too close to home for him. Rooftop, restaurant, suicide, friend, reunion; they all made the detective feel the slight guilt that he hated but had already become accustomed of, despite himself. He couldn't deny -at least not to himself- that even though John, Lestrade and Mrs. Hudson had forgiven him already, he still felt he was never going to be able to repair the damaged he'd done.

His decision had worked though, his friends were safe, but they hadn't been alright. There always was something he'd missed. But it was definitely worth it. Sherlock realized if your friend's life was at danger, you would do anything to prevent the situation. Do whatever it took to help, no matter how despicably unthinkable the thing was. Even though if it meant you had to lie to said friend. The truth would be out eventually, obviously, either by something uncovering it or you telling them out of guilt. But it is always meant to come out, and once it does there's no going back. John had punched him in the face, but the sour taste in his mouth was nothing compared to what -oh. _Oh._

Death was sometimes the answer, when things were too much to bear, and apparently the man of the riddle agreed with this too. "He fed her to him." He spoke up, leaving James shocked by the answer to the riddle that he thought would never come.

He had actually planned for this one to surpass Sherlock's intellect; of course he would get it eventually, but he never imagined it would take less than two minutes for him to arrive to a correct conclusion. "Care to elaborate?" He said not ready to admit defeat yet.

The detective took a deep breath and started. "A couple and their long time childhood friend take some time away and go sailing in the ocean. An unexpected storm hits them and they are shipwrecked, the wife dies tragically after this. When the two men -and the corpse of the woman- washed ashore on a deserted island the husband is deadly sick and in need of some medical attention. Starved, weakened and on the brink of death, the friend becomes desperate so he chops off the wife and cooks her. While feeding the husband he lies, and tells him it's seagull soup knowing he would refuse if he knew the truth. After a few days they are rescued, and when they meet again at the restaurant the man orders the seagull soup as a celebration. When he sips it, he becomes aware of the difference between the tastes and realizes the only food available in the island was his wife. Not being able to cope with the thought of having eaten his own wife, he sees no choice but to kill himself." He said hastily and the row of hostages were amazed of the man's ability to talk on end without breathing.

"Amazing." Moriarty replied sarcastically. The curly-haired man knew he was right but waited anxiously to receive affirmation. James turned on his heels and stared at the girl. "You should really thank him, he just saved you from being slowly murdered." The child sobbed uncontrollably; the detective couldn't resolve whether to be angry or relieved. The criminal shook Sherlock's hair in a sense of faux endearment. "Isn't he a good boy?" He questioned more towards Sherlock himself than the others in the room. The detective decided he was angry, definitely angry. "Stop it." He hissed back and Jim smirked exiting the room along with the remaining hostages.

* * *

Three people, three tests left, and he was already feeling exhausted. He averted a death by electrocution with ice, and one with locusts. Even thought it took solving a difficult problem and bearing four hours tied to a spinning wheel. Needless to say, his mouth still tasted of returned food and the room was still turning. Sitting on the floor, he took a look to Derek. He seemed smug and Sherlock had the hypothesis it was as a chain reaction of his own torment. He felt miserable, therefore Derek was gleaming. _Bastard._

The dizzy detective pondered which situation could be worse. Being the object of torture under the criminal's games, or actually being as stupid as to agree with this sort of life. The grown-child concluded it was probably the latter rather than the former. He now, felt like hell beyond compare, he thought; but he believed his mind -unlike his physical being- was free. Free of Moriarty and the turmoil he could cause within him. He would live to stand corrected.

Derek talked about something that looked important to James, but the detective felt far too dazed to be bothered and try to listen. His currently gray eyes glanced and roved over the room lazily. He was taking in the information, of the now opened door, clearly forgotten to be locked by disregard of one of James' nameless pets. He could see a tiny hallway and some stairs up, the echoes of the voices in it suggested they weren't a lot. His, was apparently the one and only door. He wondered briefly where did they keep the other prisoners. He had, until then, counted a certain amount of minions and was already planning the most efficient way of escaping. He was sick of being played at, and it seemed better to wait for John to find him in the wilderness that was probably outside the house, than to stay one more moment with this beast.

Attempting to flee now, however, wouldn't deliver the desired result, it was stupid to think it would. So, he'd work up a scheme, and wait a bit longer, if by then Lestrade, John, or Mycroft -or the three of them- hadn't arrive, he would make a run for it.

As if on cue, Moriarty turned his attention to the detective at this reflexion, and Derek looked a bit offended with the sudden lack of interest he got from the criminal. Jim half-closed his eyes and scrutinized him, then he smiled. "_He is aware of my thoughts,_" thought Sherlock. His eyes were calm, frighteningly calm; and they did nothing to soothe the already racing mind. That must be what James Moriarty was really like inside. Without the games and the charades. Just calm Jim; not dangerous Jim or wild Jim. No, there was no passion in his stare, only cold cruelty; just _dead_ Jim.

The look lasted a bit longer and it gradually became a nonchalant shrug. And as the eyes of the criminal left him, Sherlock could breathe a bit lighter. He could do this, he _would_ do this. He would get out of this and make Moriarty pay for what he has done.

He tried to stand up but staggered and fell flat on hi face. He wondered when the room would cease to twist sideways whenever he moved his head. Twenty minutes after he was released from the tight-gripping straps wherewith he was bound to that spinning death trap, and he still felt nauseous, he would definitely think twice before eating again in that place. Not that he would stay much longer.

* * *

"Darkness." That word was repeated several times to him while he was trying to work out the answer to the ninth riddle. "What's the only question in life which can never be truly proven nor answered?" Moriarty had asked and it sent Sherlock flying inwards, searching inside his mind palace for he knew he had heard that before. Maybe in a case someone had uttered a similar statement, although right now he couldn't remember the reason behind the familiarity.

Strangely, after a few seconds it became crystal clear to him, and it was easy enough for him to not stress about the dire consequences. Painful deaths had been the threat before, but he couldn't imagine a crueler one than utter darkness. "What is like to be dead?" He answered correctly, again. When he put some thought into it, all of the riddles and challenges had had something to do with the detective's life indirectly; of course he couldn't respond it literally, but they both had been "dead" in the past, and here they were again, playing in hell. Once he came to know this he chuckled slightly to himself, Moriarty really had planned every detail. Perfected and predicted every move, so much that it would almost be amazing if it wasn't for the fact that he was not expected to come out of it alive.

"Isn't it funny? I like it better when you appreciate the effort I have put into this." Jim smiled friendly, and it sent the detective right down from his light-headedness. No, _no_, he was laughing at himself, at how he got into this ridiculous situation, not _with_ him. Never with him. He would rather take a needle and effectively sew his own mouth shut without any sedative whatsoever, than to appear to be enjoying himself at the expense of this criminal.

"I solved it, now let the man go." He swallowed hard and kept a straight face once again. "Oh, not so fast. We are going to need all three of them for the last test." The two young men were asked to kneel in front of the older one, the resemblance between them was outstanding. "If you can tell me which punishment am I to enforce here, they can walk free of it." Jim stated.

Punishment, how was he expected to know which, out of all the ninety one known to him -not to mention the ones he was yet to be familiar with-, Moriarty was planing on using? One could only imagine it was not a traditional one, but damn could this man turn almost anything into a torture instrument, including -especially- the ones you hold most dear.

Jim was a cruel man, but Sherlock knew he would never deliberately give him a riddle he couldn't possibly answer. So the solution must be hidden somewhere inside the whole ordeal. It was a rather broad field of options, but it somehow was narrower than the previous, so that was a start. Surely there had to be some sort of pattern that Sherlock failed to detect in the past, but the other punishments seemed to have been chosen randomly to him, he couldn't conjure up the thought of the relation between such un-wired situations.

How could anyone ever think blood, ice and frogs -among others- to be anywhere near linkable? It probably was some social general culture he hadn't heard or hadn't cared for before. It was the sort of situation in which John's ordinariness would come rather useful, but he was not there to help nor to enlighten Sherlock.

To be honest, the detective had already decided it was better that way; after all, every time he ranked the criminal or situation at hand _too_ dangerous he'd always leave John behind and go by himself. The blogger had made it an habit to severely scold him afterwards -especially since his return from the grave- saying he simply couldn't do that, that it was not fair for him to be left in the dark, but at the end he would always forgive him and go buy more milk, as he knew that Sherlock didn't do it because he didn't care, it was the exact opposite. -_"If I'm about to go out there and do some bat-shit crazy stunt I want you to at least tell me the fucking truth behind why I an doing it!"_- A flash memory came crashing unto his skull, previously unremembered and uninvited, and it left the detective in a haze, for he could not place where had that come from. This had never happened before, the voice sounded angry, fuming even, and he couldn't imagine an scenario in which he would have deleted something like that by choice, so why couldn't he reminisce this? It certainly costed him more than he bargained for though, as a voice cried out from the outside of his mind palace that his time was over.

"Give me one more moment and surely I'll figure it out." He attempted to gain time. How could he have wasted five minutes effectively _not_ solving the puzzle was beyond him. "I gave you plenty of time Sherly. Either you give me your answer now, or I'll take it as losing by default." Sherlock thought for a second and then said "Flaying." It was a shot in the dark and by the look Moriarty was giving him a it was an ineffective one.

"Very well," He said. "The tide was meant to turn someday." And it was all the affirmation he needed to know he had failed. "It's rather disappointing though," Jim shrugged disillusioned. "That you would believe me so obvious as to peel their skin off as the consequence. You already heard me threaten someone with that before." Bummer, Sherlock thought, as if letting the psychopath down was the greatest of his worries.

"So will you do it, or shall I?" Moriarty said, and it took a second for the madman to realize he wasn't talking to him, but to the older man standing in front of the other two hostages. The man he thought he had let off the hook when he solved the last question. "You know what happens if you don't, at least this way you get to keep one." Jim said, using his softest voice, and if trying to persuade this man. Sherlock came to know that they must have talked while he was in his mind palace trying to win this round -and experiencing the strangest of flashbacks-, Moriarty was attempting to make this man kill one of his sons, with the extra incentive of ending them both himself if he refused.

"This was not the deal," The detective spoke, maybe there was a way of righting his wrong, although he doubted it would be because of a technicality. "You said one hostage per riddle." And Moriarty actually laughed at this. "Oh! Sherly aren't you smart?" The mock was not appreciated. "Whether it's just one or the two of them is entirely for this man to decide. If he would just stop being so boring." James and him were really kindred spirits, and he could not loathe himself more for it. The criminal looked at the older man and waited for the answer to his previous question. He was actually going to make that bloke shoot one of his children just to spare the other.

After a few minutes a shaking voice finally responded. "I'll do it." And the consulting criminal handed him the gun. The man took it, and pointed it to one of his sons; The sleuth brace himself for the shot.

"Do it!" Moriarty cheered, and it somehow reminded Sherlock of when he was little and his teacher unfairly coaxed him to participate in a tedious sport match. The man put his finger on the trigger. The detective wondered if he had chosen one himself or if Moriarty had suggested the eldest. If so, why would the Irish man care which one he decided to pick to fulfill the criminal's punishment? Unless it was the whole point of this torture, for the man to kill his eldest son.

"Wait!" Sherlock cried, he could stop this. "Do it!" Jim snarled in return. "Don't!" And the curly haired man felt all too much as the angel who stands in one's shoulder as an ingenious visual metaphor which represents the abstract concept of conscience in cartoons. "Don't!" He said again despite this, there would be other times to remind the criminal that he was not, in any way, a winged being. "Do it now or I'll kill this one too!" Moriarty yelled, and quickly after that Sherlock heard a bang.

* * *

Merry Christmas!


End file.
